Despite Dorian's love for books, his love for learning and his desire to please his parents, the young boy quickly realised that no matter what he did, it would never be good enough.

He had, and still was, praised for his magical talent, his abilities and his smarts, but what had once been praise were now expectations.

He was expected to excel, expected to do well. He was expected to graduate the Circle of Magi with honours, to become a full-fledged enchanter before marrying his betrothed and preparing to take over his father's place in the Magisterium and as a consiliare for the Archon.

They had told him grand stories about the Circle of Carastes, explaining that it was a school that were only for the best of mages and what an honour it was for him to be enrolled to take part of its grand legacy.

A legacy, they said, they were sure Dorian would add to.

Not once had they asked what Dorian wanted and not once had Dorian tried to tell them, not quite daring to protest his parents' wishes.

His path was set in stone and while a possibly good future was waiting for him down that path, he could already see the chains that were laid out for him.

With each step he took, he would become more capture until the chains were so tight around him that he couldn't breathe. It did not matter that the path was paved in gold, that there was riches, honour, respect and power awaiting him. The burden was already so heavy and he just couldn't understand why. He couldn't understand the tightness in his chest, the way a scream was building up inside him, but without an outlet, it would just keep on growing and growing until it hurt.

Dorian was hurting and as far as he understood it, he was supposed to.

He had to, in order to make his parents proud of him.

It hadn't been that long ago that the thought of going to school, to mingle with people his own age, was something he had longed for.

Now, as the carriage was taking him to the grand school, all Dorian could see was another thing he had to excel in, despite the fact that it had been a present from his father.

Another chain added to the path.

This was to be his home now, his mother had told him as they travelled towards the Circle.

Only temporary, of course, she added with a soft smile. Dorian's home would always be in Qarinus and he could come visit during breaks whenever he wanted.

Dorian didn't feel the enthusiasm, but still offered his mother a half-smile before settling back into staring through the window, trying to swallow away the bad taste that was forming in his mouth.

Only when the carriage stopped and Dorian got his first proper look at the grand stone structure, that his tongue loosened enough to say something.

It was low, a mere whisper, but the boy's eyes revealed just how vulnerable he was as he looked up at his parents.

"Mother. Father. … Do I have to go?"

'I don't want to go.'

But Lord and Lady Pavus had merely smiled, his father's big, warm hand placing itself on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"It is a big step, my son," Lord Pavus had said. "It is scary to be away from home, I know, but it will be fine. You will love it here. You will get the chance to learn even more about magic and Tevinter here. Just remember who you are and what brought you here."

Maybe those words where the reason why Dorian was so set on hating it.

He wasn't at the Circle because he had chosen it.

He was at the Circle because of his magic and because of his name.

Nothing more.

And so it was with heavy steps that Dorian walked up to the grand, oaken door with his parents, ready to take his place amongst sons of Magisters and on the path to become one himself.

A small, skinny boy with a mop of blank, silken hair and big, grey eyes placed in the middle of a narrow, tanned face.

A boy that had only recently reached the age of nine, dressed in his fine, though practical robes to show his status, small hands gripping hard at a staff that had been gifted to him at his birthday. It was a pretty staff, made out of polished black wood wrapped with leather for a better grip, adorned with a silver-coloured metal crafted into a snake, with its tail wrapped around the top of the staff before standing up, mouth open. It had been his favourite out of all the staffs gifted to him, the one that felt the best in his hand.

Along with this, he was also bringing with him a small chest carried by a servant that was packed with his belongings, things he would need in order to excel both academically and when it came to socializing; books, robes, expensive inks, parchments and quills made of the feather of rare birds from other countries.

In between the robes and books, Dorian had packed his own trinkets: a wooden duck with wheels that had been a gift from the elven family that served his own, his favourite story-book, and a slightly worn out night-shirt that was getting too short at the arms, but that had been made of silks from Nevarra.

Small things to make him feel a little better as he attended school.

It was to be his home now, for the time being, and he had no choice than to try and make the best of it.

And Dorian had tried at the start.

Maker knew he had tried, but he quickly found out that he just didn't fit in.

Because he was talented and bright, he was put in classes with boys three or four years older than himself, and even then he was showing far more progress than they were. He didn't ask for it, he never had, and while there was a sense of pride swelling inside him, he could also feel the looks.

He was merely a boy, surrounded by boys close to or already in their first teen years. Boys on their first steps towards manhood. He didn't have friends here; he knew that, so he did the only thing he could.

"Never let them see that you are scared," his father had once told him when they had started his first lessons with magic.

"Never let them see that you are uncertain, insecure. Stand tall; know that you have what it takes. Show them that you do. Show that words and looks do not have any power of you."

Words that were surely meant to make Dorian feel more secure, more confident, but instead of using it as a shield, Dorian wielded them like a weapon.

He would take them, before they could take him.

He was their better, that is what he had been told, and he would show them that.

He was an Altus. Son of a Magister that was greatly respected and envied. The scion of his household.

He tried not to think about the taste those thoughts left in his mouth as he tried to make himself larger than he was.

Praised by his tutors, but shunned by his peers, Dorian felt himself being torn in two directions, that feeling of wanting people to be proud of him fighting with the feeling of not feeling good enough. The feeling of being judged.

Maybe that is why he hardly felt remorse when he was guided to solitary confinement within the Circle to think about what he had done, the Templar's leather-gloved hand clasped hard on his shoulder to prevent him from running off.

Not that Dorian was planning to.

He knew that he shouldn't have burned the boy as much as he had, should have held himself back, but he was just so mad so he couldn't help himself.

He didn't voice his anger as he was guided away, nor did he deny what he had done. He took full responsibility, at least as much as he could.

The boy, a student two years older than him, had butted heads with Dorian almost from the start. They often argued about who's father was the mightiest or which one of them was the most skilled.

After a particular low blow against Dorian's age and that it was his father's money that had gotten him into the school, Dorian had been set on showing the boy that he was wrong.

Nobody could argue that he had indeed shown the boy just that, especially after the boy had slammed hard against the wall from a particularly powerful fireball conjured by Dorian.

Dorian himself had escaped with minor dirt-marks on his robes and a small cut over his forehead.

"Please wait here until we fetch you," the Templar said as he opened the door to the room Dorian would be confined in, releasing Dorian's shoulder and gesturing for him to go inside.

"How long am I to stay in there?" Dorian asked, looking up at the Templar, squinting some as he tried to get a read on the man's face from the shadows of his helmet.

"Until a senior enchanter comes to fetch you."

"Can I at least get a book to read?"

"There are books in the room for you to read."

Dorian wrinkled his nose some as he looked at the room.

He knew that solitary was meant to be a form of punishment, but as sons and daughters of powerful Magisters, nobody was willing to do something to risk their wrath.

Instead, the rooms were small, but comfortable, with a soft-looking bed, a small shelf with books, and a small table with a candle. The only thing that really screamed confinement, save from the fact that they couldn't leave the room, was that the window was as high up as the ceiling was, barred and barely big enough for someone very small to slider out, if not for the mention bars.

Dorian really couldn't tell the difference between this room and being sent to his room back home as he stepped inside, but then again, the young lord Pavus had not really tasted hardship just yet.

He would in time.

With a final look at the templar, Dorian stepped into the room, turning just in time to see the door being shut behind him, leaving the room semi-dark.

Dorian was not afraid of the dark so he walked over to the table and lit the candle with a flick from his hand, nursing the flame until it was strong enough to illuminate the room properly.

The room's selection of books were not impressive, but Dorian found a book to read after a few minutes of just looking at the worn-looking spines, selecting the most interesting one he could find.

He made himself comfortable on the bed, sitting up at the head of it and opening the book on his lap so he could start reading, bracing himself for a long night.

It would take two days before Dorian realised just how much trouble he was in as he stared at a door that would not open.

By the time the senior enchanter comes to collect him, Dorian has counted that four days has passed and he has burned twice the amount of candles to lighten up the dark room.

The senior enchanter has been there once every day, wanting to talk to Dorian about what had happened, wanting to see if he could make him see the error in what he did, but Dorian says nothing about it.

On the fifth day the senior enchanter comes, he does not come alone and the look Dorian gets from the very disappointed-looking man behind the enchanter is enough to make the boy look down in shame.

"Dorian. Come here."

He doesn't want to obey, but his body moves on his own as he slides down from his spot on the bed and walks over to his father, head still down.

"Your belongings have already been packed. We are going back home."

Dorian carefully looked up at his father, but he could not meet the hard, piercing eyes of Halward Pavus.

The disappointment burned harder than any spell and for the first time, Dorian felt regret for doing what he did. Not because of the reason, but because of the final result.

He had disappointed his father again.

"Come, Dorian."

They left the Circle in silence, Halward staring hard into the air while Dorian looked at his feet, walking fast to keep up with his father's own, long strides.

Nobody came to say good bye to Dorian, no teachers and no students, but he wasn't surprised. He had no friends here and he could tell that this was a walk of shame.

He had shamed his family.

The trip back home to Qarinus was done mostly in silence, with Dorian keeping his eyes on his hands and his father looking out the window, eyebrows pulled down in a frown.

"You have disappointed us, Dorian," Halward finally said after hours, breaking the silence between them.

"When we got the letter from your teacher, we didn't want to believe it. We believed that you were better than that."

"Father," Dorian whispered, his voice small and thin, making him feel even smaller.

"Don't," Halward said sharply. "We expected better from you, Dorian. We did not expect this… Petty behaviour. Fighting with your peers? Unofficial duels to show your prowess? Disobeying rules of order? You have squandered a good opportunity and you have shamed us."

"… I am sorry," Dorian whispered, feeling his eyes well up. His throat and chest felt tight, making it hard to breathe, making him grasp at the front of his robes in an attempt to make that heavy feeling inside him feel less constricted.

"I do not want to hear it," Halward snapped. "Whatever your reasons are, they are not good enough for such shameful behaviour. I know everything that happened, Dorian; I have talked to your teachers. This… This will break your mothers' heart."

Dorian couldn't stop the tears as they started sliding down his cheeks, but he could stop the sobs that threatened to escape him by biting his bottom lip hard.

He wanted to say something, but his voice wasn't working. A lump had formed in his throat and he felt that no matter how many times he tried to swallow it, it just grew larger and larger until it felt like he was going to choke.

"I do not want to hear a word from you for the remainder of this trip, Dorian," Halward finally said, not once having looked at his son.

"When we come home, you are to go straight to your room until we tell you it is okay to come out."

Dorian was about to open his mouth to answer, but settled for just nodding, too afraid to anger his father further.

The words festering inside him as the silence once again surrounded them, making it feel like Dorian was under water. His head was hurting from thinking, from contemplating everything that had been happening over the last few days, but he just didn't get it.

His father used to praise him, he had been proud before, because Dorian was so talented with magic, but he was now angry because Dorian had showed it.

His father had told him to be proud, had told him that he was to show everyone how good he was, but when Dorian had, it was wrong.

A small voice in his head told him that maybe, just maybe, it was the way he had done it, but Dorian couldn't think of any other ways to show it than actually, physically, showing it. Telling it would only get you so far before someone would demand for you to show how true your words were.

The trip home took over two days and while they stopped to eat and rest, the trip was done in complete silence. The only time the silence broke was when Halward spoke to the driver, giving him orders on what to do, or when talking to the owners of the inns they stayed in.

Dorian had been terrified to speak even a word to his father, afraid to anger him further, so he just let himself sit in the silent presence of his father, eyes cast downward. He didn't dare speak, did not dare ask for anything even when he desperately needed the privy or was hungry.

He remained as a ghost next to him, trying to make himself as invisible as possible, only moving or doing something when Halward told him so.

"Such an obedient lad," one of the ladies that served them food had complimented, but that only made the lump in Dorian's stomach harden further as Halward's expression took on a sterner look as he eyed his son with a hard look.

"He has his moments," was the only thing said and for some reason, those words stung deeply.

Once they had finally reached home, after two days on the road, Halward stayed true to his word and after giving the slaves a couple of quick orders, he sent Dorian a stern look before pointing his finger to the stairs.

He didn't need to say anything in order to get his message across and Dorian obediently went up to his room.

Once inside, Dorian didn't even bother lighting any candles, merely walking over to bed before climbing in, curling up on the silken sheets.

He brought his hand to his mouth, curling it into a fist before biting down on his knuckles to silence the sobs that threatened to escape his mouth. There was little he could do to stop the tears that were spilling from his eyes, despite squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could.

For the first time since he was put in solitary, Dorian felt regret about what had happened inside him, the pain in his belly coiling and twisting like a snake.

He laid there in silence for what felt like hours, the sun slowly going down on the outside, creating long, dark shadows in his room until it was completely dark.

His mind was spinning and he was trying to think, trying to find out exactly when he had done something wrong.

He felt stupid for not understanding what he had done wrong.

Why was his father so mad at him? Had he not done exactly what he had been taught?

He was acting like the other kids were, showing how good he was.

Where had he gone wrong..?